


The Nutter Club

by Bettys_blend



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst and Humor, Badass Robin Ellacott, Don't hide stuff from your partner, F/M, Nutter drawer, Pub Talks, Serious Detectoring, Stubble, burgeoning, unsolicited mail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29953938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettys_blend/pseuds/Bettys_blend
Summary: While having drinks with Vanessa, Robin spills that she's been receiving odd letters at the office.
Comments: 39
Kudos: 34





	1. The Letters from No One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katie Starling](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Katie+Starling).



> I am hoping, with fingers crossed, to turn this light-hearted little romp into a beginner casefic. 
> 
> This hasn't been Brit-picked. Please pick away!

"So when," moaned Robin, raising her voice a bit to be heard above the pub chatter, "did our unsolicited mail turn into bloody fan fiction?"

Sat across from her, Vanessa raised an intrigued eyebrow as only Vanessa could.

"Explain", she commanded.

Robin blushed scarlet and gulped down the tail end of her third glass of wine.

"Someone's sending letters", she mumbled. "I mean, people always have done. Some of them are absolutely bonkers. I think I mentioned the one about the Citizen's Advice Bureau? Anyway, quite a few new ones have come in this past week. Addressed to me. About me, in fact. And, well, Strike."

"Compromising material?" asked Vanessa, not bothering to hide how much she was enjoying the turn this conversation had taken.

"Imaginary material!" Robin wailed. "Nothing has happened. We're partners, full stop. But someone seems to be having a laugh at us."

"Ah," said Vanessa mildly. "Anything you'd like to be true?"

"You sound just like them", Robin grumbled, fiddling with the neckline of her blouse. "Sure it's not you? Someone knows an awful lot about our office routine. And the Land Rover. And -oh God- that green Cavalli dress of mine."

"That does sound disturbing." Vanessa conscientiously adjusted her face into some semblance of seriousness. "I think you need to produce the evidence so that the Met can get to work on it at once. Tell you what, just hand it straight to me tonight."

"Oh, nice try", Robin muttered, shooting her a bleary glare. "No one is reading those wretched things but me. You'd better believe I've been hiding them from Strike. After Laing, he'd go spare."

She paused and ran a finger around the stem of her empty glass.

"It doesn't feel anything like that though," she said. "Most of them- well, they are really sweet. Like they're from someone who cares about both of us and wants us to be happy. Only- they've got the wrong end of the stick and they're taking some seriously cheeky liberties."

Vanessa sighed and investigated the bottom of her own glass. Robin, who was now beet red, had essentially revealed that the office had been sent multiple letters by post, featuring sexual content and indicating familiarity with her vehicle, movements, and wardrobe.

And she didn't want police assistance.

Partly because she was embarrassed, but even worse, she was justifying it on some level because she thought it was "sweet".

The girl had it bad.

Perhaps Vanessa had been broadcasting her disapproval because Robin snapped out of her reverie and seemed to sober up a bit.

"Ok fine, I've got a picture of one on my mobile," she said. "It's fairly tame."

Vanessa snatched up the phone before Robin could change her mind and then took her time squinting at the tiny screen.

"They all come in typed and printed?"

"Yes. Different fonts though. Postmarks are from all over London. Different types of paper. It's mad because I swear some have American spelling."

"Mmm. London's big. There could be actual Americans among us, you know. Sometimes we let them in."

"I just bloody well hope you check they're not armed first."

"Not really up to the Met, is it, even if it is still Home Office." Vanessa let out a slow whistle and brought the phone almost to her eyeballs. "Does that really say 'burgeoning'?"

"Yes," Robin mumbled, letting her head pitch forward onto her crossed arms on the tabletop, narrowly missing her glass.

"And the other not-so-tame letters go beyond 'burgeoning'?"

"Oh fuck it," came the muffled reply from the heap of arms.


	2. The Keeper of the Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the tea steeps, the plot thickens.

Robin Ellacott had a good deal to be grateful for these days.

  
True, her head was still a bit sore as she fumbled at the building door that Friday morning; it was also true that she remained somewhat frustrated with the lack of transparency surrounding her partner's feelings with her. But just living in a place she liked, with a person she liked, and doing the work she was born to do, alongside the man who, at the very least, had begun to drop little breadcrumbs of affection before her, like trails potentially leading somewhere nice...these were all very good things, surely.

But every time she thought about the post, a wave of spine-chilling anxiety threatened to pull her under. Not because of the letters themselves; any reasonable person could see they were not her fault. All the same, she sincerely hoped no such thing was being sent to anyone else at the office.

What Robin Ellacott dreaded was that someone else might find out how much she was enjoying them.

  
Take today, for example; Pat was out of the office for the morning and Robin planned to casually pop down to the letterbox at about half ten and shepherd away any missives addressed to her name only. Pat, grating as Strike might find her, was a consummate professional and would never have snooped through anyone's mail. And neither would Strike, of course, but he had a keen eye for detail and would surely notice if one or two letters addressed to Robin were to appear on her end of the partners' desk every day.

How very discreet and walled-in he was. He'd never ask, but he'd glance at them. She could imagine the quick downward flick of his eyes, the eyebrow twitch occurring every time an Important Clue had been registered. And then he'd look at her and her ridiculous pale skin would flush and burn and one of two things would happen: he would peer into the depths of her soul and suss out her secret (no, thank you!) - or else he wouldn't, and a stupid misunderstanding would flare up (not again!).

So Robin waded through some morning paperwork, took a meeting with a divorcée who had looked disappointed that Strike wasn't around to greet her too. He was on surveillance in Tooting, which was none of the client's business, naturally.

Half-past ten rolled around gloriously; the new client had signed their contract, shaken Robin's hand in an extravagantly vinyl-nailed grip, and made her way back down the metal stairs. Once she was really gone, Robin flipped on the kettle and dashed for the letterbox.

Her small key was old and sticky, and thus a good match for the battered tin boxes themselves. She turned it in the lock, which complained and resisted and dragged its feet, as always, but the key did the job and a fat sheaf of letters was now in her hand.

  
Bill, bill, advertisement, bill, letter for both partners from the developer- and one neatly printed envelope made out solely to Robin Ellacott. Bingo. Clutching her haul, she took the stairs two at a time.

What a delectable moment she was having, all caught up with her more mundane tasks and alone in the office. She splashed water over the teabag in her usual mug and selected one and one-third Hob Nobs, since broken biscuits are unaesthetic and don't count anyway, and propped her bum comfortably on the edge of the counter.

Quivering with anticipation, she slipped on a pair of gloves before ripping open the evidence.

So far, nothing deviated from the normal profile; a printed white page, justified, a neutral font that was probably Calibri. And then certain phrases began to jump out at her and she was unable to focus on anything else.

_..."Another Friday night at the Tottenham with you by my side, Ellacott? Consider me the luckiest man in the world."_

_...the feel of his stubble on the back of her hand, which he then turned over, cradling it in his own massive one, drawing her fingertips up his cheek as he pressed increasingly breathless kisses into her palm, her wrist..._

_...his dark eyes meeting her own magnetically, letting her know yes, you are home. And so am I..._

But then she heard heavy, uneven footfalls on the metal stairs. Strike was returning early from Tooting.

In total and disproportional panic, she shoved the letter back into its envelope and stuffed the gloves into her jeans pocket. Her bag in the inner office suddenly seemed far away. On impulse, she yanked open the cupboard under the sink. Scrubbing sessions in less affluent years had taught her that there was a loose piece of paneling behind the U-bend.

  
The problem was that there were already two envelopes under the panel and she thought she spied "Cor" in the gloom. 

_Bollocks_. 

She folded her letter in two and shoved it down her knickers, cursing the impractical small pockets on women's jeans these days.

When Strike opened the outer door a moment later he found her gazing beatifically at him over the rim of her mug, propped against the counter a good five feet from the undisturbed and innocent sink.

"Tea?" She asked. "You're in early."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a vague feeling someone might have written something along the lines of "yes, you are home. And so am I" quite recently. If this is the case, please let me know so I can apologize and give credit where due.


	3. The Writing on the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everly to Katie Starling for giving my slang a right set-to.

Strike, whose spirits had been bolstered by tea and biscuits and Robin, not necessarily in that order, went back to dreading his next meeting of the day as he headed out the door. That morning, before he had truncated his surveillance operation, he had received a call from Oliver, Vanessa’s fiancé in the Met’s forensics department, confirming that they had been unable to lift any fingerprints from the thin strip he had cut from the bottom of his second-to-last letter.   
  
Oliver had inquired blandly about dusting the rest of the page, and as Strike had casually rebuffed his generous and sensible offer, he had suffered a very pleasant if inconvenient flashback as he had recalled its contents.

. _..scarcely daring to breathe, he let the rough pad of one thumb trace her curves just above where the sumptuous green silk began. As he felt her own breath hitch in response, and she nestled closer to him, cheek against his shoulder, he knew they were irrevocably lost._

_But what did that matter, as long as they were lost together._

Suffice to say that letter was going nowhere. It was the latest one, however, that was giving him a headache. He had just retrieved it in a flash from under the sink, along with its companion, while Robin was in the loo. Having the letters out of the office and back in the relative safety of his coat brought with it a palpable sense of relief. He'd been the one to check the letter-box the day before, fortunately, and he'd seized Stanley knife and gloves and set about removing sample strips to send to Forensics, in the kitchen where the light was better.

But once he'd actually read the newest one, he knew that no part of it was going anywhere near the police. So he'd put it back in its envelope and had just finished placing the trimming from the other letter in an evidence bag when he'd heard feet on the stairs. He shook his head at himself as he recalled how he'd shoved the two envelopes hastily into his makeshift hidey-hole under the sink, like a guilty child with a broken plate.

In any case, the newest letter was the only one to have ever been delivered to the office; all the others had gone to his flat's letter-box, which was obviously a better arrangement for being more private. Receiving letters at the office was concerning, but unless he was severely mistaken, he would be able to ensure that it wouldn't happen again. 

He’d considered himself lucky to have been awarded an audience with Shanker on such short notice. He felt luckier still that Shanker had turned up on time. Pints in hand, they found a table and got right down to business.

“Oo you after today, Bunsen? Face like thunder. Put your leg on backwards this morning, eh?”

Strike took note of the genuine nervousness behind Shanker’s brash greeting. “I’d very much like to know", he spelled out, sliding the envelope over the table, “where you got the idea for this.”

The tattooed man barked a harsh laugh. "How'dya know it was me, ya clever bastard? Took me ages and all, used Angel's dictionary and everything.” He clicked his fingers enthusiastically a half-dozen times.

Strike narrowed his eyes and took a pull on his pint and a deep breath to restore his patience. “The hash smell on the paper is a dead giveaway, even without the scene in which Robin, and I quote, “lays about four pikey cunts in the cobblers with a lead pipe”, which I happen to know is your weapon of choice for jobs requiring a bit more reach than a blade."

"Your fackin' memory, Bunsen, I swear..."

Strike cut him off. "What I want to know is who sent the other letters, because I'm fucking hard pressed to believe that you and another person had that idea at the same time."

"Right, I'm wiv ya. Saw a letter on your desk when I came in last week to grass up Mumford."

"Ah." Strike grimaced. He had stepped out for all of twenty seconds to filch a spare pen from Pat's desk, but Shanker was Shanker.

"Joo slipped somefin under your planner all dodgy-like. So I have a shufti to see if anyone's giving you an 'ard time and needs a persuasion session. Fuck me, never fought I'd find you getting the shakedown from Jilly fackin' Cooper."

 _No_ , protested what remained of Strike's overwhelmed rational brain, _I am not having this conversation with Shanker._ He let interrogation autopilot take over.

"Jilly Cooper?"

"Right, Alyssa reads 'er an' all. Anyway, I said it's brilliant, sending Bunsen reminders of 'ow fit his Robin is and how he should be givin' her a bit of a squeeze."

"Fine," said Strike wearily, knocking back the last of his pint for strength. "So you looked at the letter, you put it back, you don't know who wrote it."

"Cracking bit of writing, too. Only a bit boring. So I said, what Bunsen needs to read next is a proper scrap, bit of mud, and his bird knockin' four geezers on their Aris, yeah."

"You're lucky that wasn't the one I sent to Forensics, mate. Imagine the fuss if they'd found your prints on it."

"Fuck, din' think of that." Shanker clicked his fingers again. "And you never showed 'em this one?"

"No need, I could tell who sent it. You were in a bit of a hurry, though. Left a tiny smear of blood on the back. Figured you'd be too clever to leave your own blood on an anonymous note, wondered whose it was."

"Who are ya, me mum?"

"I was merely hoping," Strike pressed on, exasperated, "That there might be some blood left in that individual."

"Right, now you sound like _your_ mum. Grand girl. Yes. Larger part of the blood left in, all major and minor members remain intact, subject delivered to domicile shaken, not stirred et cetera."

"That's about all any of us can hope for these days," Strike conceded, feeling strangely mollified.

"Bunsen? That letter wasn't sent by anyone meanin' to hurt her, if that's what you're thinkin'. Expert opinion, that."

They left the pub and had turned to go their separate ways when Strike spun back with a bellowed "Oi!"

"Whazzat?" Shanker shouted back.

"That fight was pretty great. Yeah."  
  
Shanker flashed him a thumbs-up and a glint of gold tooth and merged into the crowd.


End file.
